


The Hand of a King

by Anonymous



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Power Exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-22 20:10:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13174329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: A reworked fill for the following kink meme prompt:Pretty much what it says on the tin. Give me lonely, awkward teenage Norrell fantasizing or dreaming (or both!) about being taken by his King. That's it.





	The Hand of a King

**Author's Note:**

> Hi here's my shame. I don't have any explanation for this. I rewrote it to see if I could and was encouraged to post it.

The air in the wood is chill.

Gilbert does not know why this should surprise him. He looks around him, and finds that it is snowy. Why had he expected it to be summer? 

He blinks, and reorients himself. He is barefoot, clad only in a nightshirt, but he is not as cold as he ought to be. He feels the cold easily always, but the snow on his feet barely registers. The wind against his bare legs doesn't cut the way it should; it only nips, pushing him forward.

He is walking. He doesn't know when he started walking. Only that he needs to continue.

The snow crunches underfoot, and every so often a branch breaks beneath his tread. Someone is waiting for him. He can't remember who.

The path he's on is half-shadowed by trees; the sun keeps flickering in and out as he walks. Very lightly, new snow is falling, landing on his shoulders and eyelashes. He blinks, and the flakes dance, tiny lights reflecting in his vision.

He's closer now. There's a clearing up ahead, and yes, that is where he is supposed to be. Someone is waiting for him, if he could just remember who--

He blinks again. He's suddenly much closer, as if time has skipped. He shivers, and enters the clearing.

A richly-dressed figure in black is waiting for him: pale, with long, long black hair. He is wearing a silver crown, and a cloak of raven feathers.  _ Oh!  _ thinks Gilbert. 

He walks forward, and bows his head respectfully, stopping some distance from the king.

"There tha are," says John Uskglass, "Tha're late."

"I came as fast as I could," says Gilbert, folding his hands in front of himself. 

"Well, tha're here now," says John Uskglass. He walks forward, bringing himself within touching distance of Gilbert, and Gilbert feels his breath catch. The king--his king--

"What will you have of me?" says Gilbert.

John Uskglass tilts his head, and looks at Gilbert for a long while. "What will tha give me, magician?"

"Anything," whispers Gilbert. 

This, at last, earns him a smile. "Anything? Aye, and everything?"

"Aye, and everything," says Gilbert. 

"What are the words of the Yorkshire game, magician?"

Gilbert's breath catches. He says, "I greet thee, Lord, and bid thee welcome into my heart."

"And do tha?"

"Yes, Lord."

"Good," says the Raven King.

He walks forward purposefully, the snow crisp under his boots, and suddenly they are back further, Norrell against a tree, with John Uskglass -- with the Raven King -- standing just in front of him.

"Are tha mine, magician?" says John Uskglass.

"Yes, Lord," says Gilbert. He can feel himself trembling. The bark is rough against his hands, his nightshirt soft against his body. In contrast to the dimming of the cold, every texture stands stark, magnified. He looks up, into the Raven King's dark, dark, dark eyes. They remind him of something he won't know for years, something he's already lost and has yet to find. They remind him of his own helplessness, and his own power.

John Uskglass takes his chin in one hands and looks at him. "Tha will take," he says, with an air of casual command, the tone Gilbert imagines he must have used when directing armies, "what I choose to give thee."

"Anything," breathes Gilbert.

At last, John Uskglass seems satisfied. "It is sealed," he says, and lowers his lips to Gilbert's.

It is an intoxicating thing, to be kissed by a king. For Gilbert, who has never yet been kissed by anyone, it is as rich and rare as wine, the feeling as red in his mouth. He closes his eyes and presses upward, but John Uskglass pays him no mind. He keeps the kiss shallow, a simple pressing of the mouth. A benediction, of sorts.

He kisses next the curve of Gilbert's nose, and the place between his eyes, and then his forehead. Perhaps it should seem parental, but instead it feels wildly vulnerable. Gilbert clutches his hands to the tree-bark, willing himself not to move.  _ Be obedient. This is your king. _

John Uskglass hmms a little, and studies Gilbert. He squirms under that gaze, acutely aware of how small he is, how odd his body and face are, but John Uskglass does not seem to see any of that. Instead, he seems to be planning.

He kisses Gilbert again, deliberate and slow, and this time it's no benediction. Were Gilbert in any state to second-guess himself -- which for once in his life he is not -- he might wonder if it were a sin. If men were allowed to kiss each other this way. It is everything Gilbert has ever wanted in his life. The soft steadiness of the lips, the openness of the mouth--oh, sharing breath with a king, with his king. He makes a faint noise. Then a louder one as John Usglass laughs and bites his lip.

It should hurt, it does hurt, but he wants it again--he tries to copy the movement, tries to bite back, is shaken and loosened when John Uskglass takes his lip between his teeth and, not bites, but drags. Then soothes, carefully, with the gentlest pressure.

Gilbert's eyes are screwed shut. He thus does not see when, in one smooth motion, John Uskglass pins his hands with one arm and pulls up his nightshirt with the other.

Gilbert gasps, and opens his eyes. The air does feel cold now, against his bare body. He shivers harder and stares helplessly.

"I choose to give you this," says John Uskglass. "Do you choose to accept?"

Gilbert nods. He is again aware of his body, how much he hates it, how detached from him it normally feels, but at the moment, he can't focus on anything but the feeling of cold air and the tingling anticipation of being touched. His nerves are all wick as tender tree-buds, shaking in the spring wind.

John Uskglass is wearing leather gloves. He peels off first one, and then the other. Gilbert's hands are still pinned above himself by something. Probably it is magic, though he does not care to know. He only cares to feel warm hands on him.

One finger, sharp-nailed and gentle, traces itself down the curve of Gilbert's chest. He moans softly and arcs, and instantly the hand is gone.

Gilbert forces himself back down against the tree, thinking of sacred groves, of hallowed trees, of whether this is how they become them. He cannot open his eyes. 

"Take what I give thee and no more," says John Uskglass, and this time his voice is dark with steel, and Gilbert can only nod. There are hands on his hips, just up from where he needs them, and oh, oh, oh, they're moving up his ribs, caressing his sides, his hips, his chest. He forgets everything he hates about those parts, and  _ feels _ .

He's whimpering. He moves, dimly and slowly, to turn his head to his shoulder where his nightshirt is tangled up, aiming to muffle himself, but John Uskglass takes his chin and turns his head again.

Gilbert opens his eyes, finally, chest tight with embarrassment.

"I won't have thee hiding," says John Uskglass. "Every sound tha makes is part of the gift tha gives me--just as this is." He caresses again, his touch less gentle, just a hint of nails. "Every sound is mine."

Gilbert lets his head fall back, opens his mouth, and moans. 

With a satisfied smile, the Raven King looks at him, and kneels.

Gilbert's legs suddenly feel weak. The king's warm breath is on him and his mouth is ghosting now against one hip bone, then against his stomach. "Oh, oh, god," he says, swallowing. "Oh my god--"

The barest flicker of tongue, then the sharp flick of teeth. He clenches his hands into fists, though he still can't move his wrists. John Uskglass's long dark hair is faintly ticklish, moving against his skin.

The mouth moves down from his hip, and inward...

Frantically, he jerks, but John Uskglass's hands hold him in place, pressing suddenly hard against his hips. He thinks in the morning he'll have finger-marks, thinks he wants them. He cries out, and then does it again, and then it turns into a moan, and then a wail. Panting, gasping, because when he had not thought to be given  _ this-- _

He looks, in the hopes that it will somehow make the overwhelming tide of shivery, knee-weakening anguish and joy less. Instead he sees his king, on his knees, giving service to  _ him _ .

He opens his mouth, and he can't help the scream that escapes, keening and helpless. He feels intensely the strength of surrender, the potency of vulnerability. He feels endless, more awake than he has ever been in his life, shot through from toe to crown with waves of power. 

This can't go on, it can't, and sure enough, he feels a crest coming. His toes curl and he moves restlessly, trying to escape and reach it faster at the same time, but soon enough it's on him and he's screaming again and his nails are cutting into his palms--

And then it finishes, ebbing slowly and leaving him weak and warm. The force keeping his arms in place relaxes. He half-kneels, half-falls, and John Uskglass catches him. A warm hand rubs his back. It is safe here.

He can't speak. He thinks, instead: _ I greet thee, Lord, and bid thee welcome into my heart _ .

"I thank you for your gift, magician," is the last thing he hears.

Gilbert jerks awake. He lays there for a moment, heart pounding, awash with shame and anger at himself. It is probably filthy to have a dream like that about the Raven King. He lays still for a few minutes more in case there's someone in the darkness, waiting for him to move so that they can punish him.

But all is silence. The moon is full outside his window. A raven croaks.

Perhaps...

Perhaps it is a gift--a payment for loyalty. Perhaps, for a subject who dedicates himself so thoroughly to magic, perhaps the Raven King brings these dreams as a reward.

Gilbert falls asleep, comforted by the thought. If John Uskglass visits him again that night, he does not remember.


End file.
